


Aftermath

by Kevin_Mask (Nikolai_Knight)



Category: Kinnikuman, Kinnikuman Nisei | Ultimate Muscle
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 05:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18462908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Kevin_Mask
Summary: Buffaloman and Ramenman reminisce, as they think upon their greatest accomplishment.





	Aftermath

_A crash from the kitchen._

Ramenman tilted his head towards the sound. A clattering and clinking of ceramics echoed out through the small apartment, followed by loud curses and a kick of the cabinets, and the vibrations – as wood cracked and paint pealed – sent several objects tumbling from the countertop and onto the tiles below. He stepped towards the kitchen. Each step was slow and steady, while someone within audibly brushed at the debris with an old broom.

He stopped in the doorway, where he leaned with arms folded. Buffaloman stood shirtless, with bulging and toned muscles exposed to the cold air, and his nipples erect in a manner that tempted a further examination with a tongue, but Ramenman held back with a smirk. The dozens of scars that littered dark skin were a testament to a life well lived, while brown locks cascaded over his shoulders and brushed lightly against his back. He barely cast his gaze upward, as he brushed a series of shards from the floor, even as Ramenman whispered:

“I believe there is a saying in English.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“You are like a ‘bull in a china-shop’.” Ramenman smiled. “In this case, perhaps the buffalo would be more apt for such an analogy. I do not doubt this was an accidental occurrence, but your temper has led you to drop and smash what little plates and mugs we possess, and we do not have the wealth of Suguru or Robin for you to sate your rage in this manner.”

Buffaloman tossed the broom aside. He flung himself against the countertop, where he leaned with hands clenching the marble with a firm grip, and his white knuckles led to raised veins along his wrist and forearms. Ramenman sauntered to his side, as he took a sharp chin in his hands and angled that head to face him. A faint blush crossed over Buffaloman. Even after so many decades, it took little for arousal and self-consciousness to mingle together. The expressive face betrayed the interplay of emotions. Ramenman hummed.

“The younger generation don’t need us,” muttered Buffaloman.

The roughness of his beard scratched at Ramenman’s hand, until – with a furrowed brow – he lowered his hand slowly down the long column of neck . . . fingertips brushed against a pectoral muscle, down the dip of his abdomen . . . finally they pulled at his belt. Buffaloman obediently followed, as he was led out of the kitchen and into the lounge. A firm push knocked him onto the sofa. Ramenman sat astride him and ran his fingers through soft and long hair, not lost to time like a few of their unfortunate colleagues. He whispered:

“That is a problem?”

“Yeah,” said Buffaloman. “I trained those young boys and watched them grow into young men, and I even fought for them and alongside them, but now peace has been attained and they’re off living their own lives . . . even Mantaro’s training hard. Is this my life now? Am I just to grow old and see the youth live the life I once led? What if they forget me?”

“So you are concerned that your life is no longer the same?”

“No, it’s not even that. I miss the thrill of the fight, but I’ve still stamina where it counts.” Buffaloman bucked upwards with a chuckle. “It’s more that we never had children, and I miss them and their annoying habits and back-talking and . . . their potential.”

A smile broke over Ramenman’s lips. The memories of late-night study sessions, weekends spent sparring in the old cave, Suguru sneaking over for updates on his ‘secret’ tuition . . . Mantaro may have came to him as an act of perceived rebellion, but he stayed as a student with a connection to his teacher. Ramenman pressed his forehead to Buffaloman’s, while he rubbed their noses together and rested hands on broad shoulders. Rough fingers came about his waist, as they pressed flush against one another, and his heart raced in his chest.

“You have left your mark on the world,” swore Ramenman. “They incorporated your techniques into their repertoire, just as they have forged lifelong memories of you and were shaped by your hand. You live forever through them. They are your greatest success.”

“Perhaps we could arrange a reunion? Both generations?”

A tear sparked in his eyes, as Ramen let loose a shuddered breath. He pulled back enough to see the hope that shone through that aging visage, while thick arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him close, and – with a moan – Buffaloman buried his face into the crook of his neck, both hiding his vulnerability and seeking comfort. Ramenman ran his hands through the sleek locks and swallowed hard. He pressed a kiss to the head.

“I think that is a marvellous idea,” said Ramenman.

They remained locked in a long embrace. The window overlooked a great deal of the Spanish landscape, while the television flickered with the results of a series of exhibition matches, and occasionally Mantaro or Kid would linger on screen . . . interviews, video clips, publicity photographs . . . it was sometimes as if the New Generation were still with them. Ramenman felt every rise and fall of that large chest, while each hiss of breath echoed just under his ears and blew warm air onto his skin, and his eyes drifted to the window with a smile.

Sunlight shone upon them. The world felt right. 


End file.
